


dressed in orange blossom

by orphan_account



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, Coming Untouched, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 05:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Harold had the cameras installed in the apartment the day John moved in. They were an emergency measure, a way to track John if he vanished or, heaven forbid, was hurt. Harold never used them. Almost never.





	dressed in orange blossom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).

Harold had the cameras installed in the apartment the day John moved in. They were an emergency measure, a way to track John if he vanished or, heaven forbid, was hurt. Harold never used them. Almost never. 

It had been a month since they'd deepened the intimacy of their relationship, a month of working together and socializing together and sleeping together, and Harold was being just as careful and as cautious as he could possibly manage, treating this thing between them like delicate crystal. He insisted on several nights apart each week, reasoning that they spent enough time in each other's company, even though it felt like cutting off a limb every time he went home alone. 

And so some mornings he would get to the library early, and turn on a camera to find John brewing coffee or shining his shoes, comforted by the sight of these small domestic moments. And some mornings he would find John walking around with damp skin and a towel slung low on his hips, or moving through his morning yoga routine, or putting his clothes on.

Harold had known, over the years, the pleasure of slow undressing, zippers carefully pulled down, the slide of warm silk falling, his jacket pushed away by eager hands. He had never dreamed of how erotic it would be to watch John get dressed, to watch his head tipped back to expose his throat as he shaved, nimble fingers buttoning his shirt, he soft brush of his cufflinks against his wrist. 

More than once Harold had undone his pants with shaking fingers, already hard and shamefully desperate, and brought himself off to the sight of John walking down the street with a swing in his hips and a smoldering glance at every camera he passed. Those nights, Harold never went home alone. 

Evidently, John knew he was watching. 

It was there in the way his towel hung just a little lower on his hips, he spent just a little longer choosing his clothes. John's suits were mostly the same, of course, but there were slight differences in cut, and Harold had to admit to admiring the closely cut fit of some of his pants. Then there was the steel-gray shirt he loved, the perfect shade to bring out John's eyes, and the matching silver cufflinks he rarely wore. He was wearing the whole lot today, and after putting on his coat John had stood in front of the camera above the door and slowly worked his leather gloves down over long fingers.

That was the kind of initiative that deserved to be rewarded, in Harold's view. Or perhaps punished. 

"You look very handsome today, John," he said into the earpiece as John left his building, and got a smile in return, quickly smothered. 

"Thank you."

"I like that color on you very much," Harold went on. "Although I can't help but notice that you've neglected to button your shirt properly."

"Really?" John asked, and undid another button. 

"I know you only do that to tease me," Harold said. "You know how much I like your throat."

"You're full of surprises today, Harold."

Not far from the library, John took a detour into the bakery on the corner they often frequented. Harold switched to their internal cameras before finding a webcam with the perfect angle. John was ordering their drinks, chatting politely to the barista. When he bent down to point at something at the bottom of the glass case, Harold waited until he was leaning on the counter, ass towards the camera, and then said, "I'm so glad I got the pants in a slim cut. It would really have been a pity to spoil such a view."

When John stood up his cheeks were pink, and he fumbled slightly with his card as he paid. Harold went on relentlessly, never letting him regains his balance. "I frequently think about what you look like bending over. Over my desk in the library. Spread across the bed in your apartment."

By the time John left the store he was no longer walking with his usual grace, and he was holding the bag of baked goods low in front of him. He was also ducking his head to hid a smile. "You like my ass, Harold?"

"I like every part of you," Harold assured him. "But I admit to a certain fondness for your ass."

This time John came to a complete stop in front of the nearest security camera, looking directly into it. "I'm two minutes away. Don't move." 

Oh dear. Harold felt a certain amount of trepidation at what he'd unleashed, but there was nothing for it now, not with John weaving rapidly across his screen through the foot traffic of Manhattan. The library door thudded shut below him and John's dress shoes clicked on the stairs, and then he was there, dumping the cups and the bakery bag on the desk and kneeling in front of Harold's chair. 

John apparently wasn't worried about preliminaries because he went for Harold's fly without even bothering to take off his coat. He was still wearing his gloves, for God's sake. Harold opened his mouth to say something and the cool, rough slide of John's glove against his dick made him whimper. John was jerking him with a light touch, not enough for relief, the butter-soft black leather against Harold's skin looking almost obscene. Then he bent his head and mouthed at the tip, and the contrast of his soft, hot mouth with the rough leather was nearly enough to make Harold come. 

"John—" he gasped, and John bent forward and swallowed him down. 

The first time, Harold had tried to be careful with John, tried to let him set the pace. That was before he'd realized how openly and enthusiastically John was enjoying himself. There was something almost depraved about it, the way Harold could sink his fingers into John's hair and hold John's head between his thighs while he buried his cock down John's throat. 

It was bliss, and John's choked moans only made it better. Harold shifted slightly to press his calf between John's thighs and felt a surge of triumph at the stuttering of his breath, the way his hands tightened on Harold's hips. He wanted to make it last, he did, but it was impossible, pushing against John's slick lips, with John's throat tight around him, and Harold spent down John's throat with a ragged gasp. 

He sank back in the chair, fighting to catch his breath. He felt incredible. He wanted John to feel just as good. "Come here," he said, pulling at the bit of jacket still gripped in his hand. John rose gracefully to his feet, leaning back against the desk, and it took a moment for Harold to put together the damp stain on the front of his pants with the rueful expression on his face and realize that John had—John had come just from—

The only thing to do was kiss him. Harold's shaky legs could barely support him but John was there, arms encircling him, steadying him, and Harold took hold of John's face in both hands and kissed him until they were breathless, until he could feel John's moans against his lips and John's pulse surging under his hands in time with his own. John kissed back hungrily, passionately, but eventually Harold had to pull back to look at him. 

"I suppose I should apologize—" Harold began. 

"Don't worry, Harold." John smiled, an easy and confident smile, like a man who knew he was adored. "Nothing says 'I love you' like hidden cameras."


End file.
